


Closing the Distance

by penlex



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dissociation, Fluff and Angst, Gen, M/M, Nightmares, Not Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Compliant, Platonic Cuddling, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-17
Updated: 2018-12-17
Packaged: 2019-09-20 20:14:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17029266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/penlex/pseuds/penlex
Summary: Steve has a nightmare while the Winter Soldier sleeps in his room.





	Closing the Distance

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hittooclosetohome](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hittooclosetohome/gifts).



> This is my first time attempting to write these two as gen, and tbh... not sure how I did with that lmfao. Hence, both the gen and the ship tag.
> 
> Rated just to be safe due to one line of non-graphic violent fantasizing.

The Soldier finds it difficult to sleep on a bed, and often equally difficult to sleep alone in an open room. There's so much space in the room that was provided for him as solely his space that when he attempts to "wind down" at night in order to achieve restful sleep, he can only see all of the empty space. It isn't even that he necessarily expects that that space will be filled with threats, or that it will shrink in on him, as his therapist sometimes suggests. It's just so big and empty, all the walls far away, with nothing in between them and him. It doesn't seem like something that should be enough of a stressor to prevent sleep and the Soldier also finds that in itself to be highly frustrating. But his therapist insists that anything that causes him distress is a valid stressor. Of course, that makes logical sense, and she is a certified professional in her field besides. She is probably right.

But, valid or not, that the Soldier cannot sleep in his bed in his room remains a problem. He can't heal if he doesn't rest. That is something he remembers from his life before, something that he told little Steve over and over again, that he had learned from his mother. He has to find a way to rest, so that he can get better.

The Soldier tries many things, but the only one that seems to do him any immediate good is to sleep sitting up in big Steve's room. He was not invited and therefore had some "anxiety" about trespassing in Steve's space, but on more than one occasion now Steve has woken up before the Soldier and has not taken offense at his presence. The Soldier has decided to take that as permission to continue, though his therapist does insist he should also still try to sleep in his own room first.

He has gone through that ritual tonight already, the familiar routine of trying and failing, and now he settles down in his usual chair by the foot of Steve's bed. Steve is already asleep, as he always is when the Soldier comes in at night. His shoulders rise and fall smoothly with his breaths and his hair sticks up in fluffy tufts on his pillow. Even in the bleached light of the moon, his lips still look a healthy pink. 

Steve's room is full of things. There are bedside tables and a lamp and photographs and a bookshelf filled with books and an ottoman at the foot of the bed that stores extra blankets and a dresser filled with clothing and more outfits inside the open closet and a small pile of dirties on the floor, and this chair that the Soldier sits on. There is space enough for both of them to comfortably coexist in here, but not so much space that it feels like distance. The Soldier relaxes back into his chair, and gradually sinks down into sleep.

The Soldier doesn't know what has woken him, but his teeth and his fists are clenched, the colors in the room sharper than they should be in the muted dark, and the steel-cold thirst for violence between his eyes. He has learned that these sensations together point to an emotion, and that emotion is anger. He remembers anger most of the time, though he had the name of it taken away from him. He remembers that little Steve used to have more of it than he did. Now he thinks they are probably tied. The Soldier looks around big Steve's room, with his blood roaring in his ears the way he wants to roar into the face of any threat, but he finds nothing out of place. Then Steve, still asleep in his bed and tangled up in his covers, makes a tiny hurt noise.

The Soldier's anger swells, howling and whirling around in his head, and he wishes that whoever might have made Steve make that noise were here so that the Soldier could methodically dismember them and give Steve their still beating heart as a gift. But nearly as quickly as it came, the storm dies and gives way to another emotion. The Soldier's eyes are hot and wet and he feels something like nausea, the corners of his mouth turning down. It could be sadness, worry, grief, or guilt. The Soldier can't always tell the difference. His therapist says that's okay, and sometimes she can't either. She says they often come together. Steve makes the noise again, twists and turns underneath his blanket, and as before it causes the Soldier's emotion to grow.

The Soldier remembers, from back in their old life, sometimes little Steve would have nightmares too. He was always too proud to ask for help, and so his friend Bucky - the man the Soldier used to be - would go to him without needing the asking and climb into his bed with him and hold him. It was for the simple comfort of closeness, Bucky's arms around Steve. Like a room full of things.

The Soldier rises hesitantly from his chair. As much as he wanted to hurt any person who made Steve hurt he also wants to just plain make Steve stop hurting, if he can. He steps on silent feet the short distance to the side of the bed, past the ottoman and the dirty clothes. He looks down at Steve for a moment, unsure, and then reaches his flesh arm forward to lift the covers the way he does in his memories. Steve's eyes shoot open, too wide, and he takes in a sharp breath and tenses and the Soldier catalogs the bunching of the muscles in his arm as he instinctually readies a punch.

"It's okay, it's me," the Soldier blurts out, even though usually when someone wakes to see the Soldier over their bed it is anything but okay.

"Buck?" Steve asks blearily, his reflexive tension ebbing. The Soldier pauses. He has allowed Steve to call him by that name but he hasn't truly accepted it yet. But if he's going to do this - this that the Soldier he is meant to be would never, _could_ never do...

"Yeah, Stevie," he agrees. "That's me. You had a nightmare. Scoot over." Steve scoots back across the mattress and Bucky pulls up the covers again and slides underneath. He tucks Steve's head underneath his chin even though Steve is much bigger now. The air is warm and close; there isn't any distance at all to make things feel so far away, to make Bucky feel so small and cold. It's just Steve in his arms, and all of Steve's stuff, in a room that is just the right size for it all to fit perfectly.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Come chill with me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/penlex)!


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